


jeremy heere: cold, tired, coward

by tagurselfimchilifries



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz
Genre: AU, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, NOT A FUN READ, Self Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, graphic depictions of self harm, not even sure if i'm giving this a happy ending yet lmao, sorry guys its a vent fic, that tag is for the events of halloween
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-05-07
Packaged: 2019-03-15 17:29:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13618203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tagurselfimchilifries/pseuds/tagurselfimchilifries
Summary: Jeremy is still alone, but he can do this. He can fix this. He can be his own Squip for as long as it takes.And if he can’t?Well, there’s always the bridge two blocks away.





	1. nobody to catch me

**Author's Note:**

> hey this is a vent fic
> 
> you know how you get just really??? i can't describe the emotion but like you just gotta destroy stuff? well, i don't really have that option right now so i chose to destroy jeremy!
> 
> so, if you like,,, really want to see Jeremy suffer, you've come to the right place. if not,,,, uhhhhh probably don't read this.
> 
> graphic depictions of self harm! also mild references to abuse, manipulation, and chloe almost raping jeremy. possibly very triggering content. be careful. love y'all. <3

Jeremy Heere stares at his bedroom wall in shock. He’s still in his robot costume from the Halloween party to end all Halloween parties. He’s still shaking from (not Chloe, not Chloe, he’s fine it wasn’t rape he’s fine he’s not weak she didn’t hurt him) the Squip’s parting words.  
  
_“My apologies, Jeremy. It seems even I cannot save you this time. You’ve fucked things up beyond repair.”_  
  
And then––without even a simple melodramatic poof––the Squip had disappeared.  
  
Forever.  
  
Forever?  
  
“Okay,” he says to nobody (he’s alone, even the Squip gave up on him, nobody will love him anymore). “Okay.” He shivers.  
  
So what if the Squip is gone? Jeremy doesn’t need the Squip. He can (fuck fuck fuck he wants to die, he can’t do this, he needs a squip fuck fuck fuck) be his own person.  
  
“What would the Squip have me do?” he asks himself out loud, _still fucking shaking._ It’s too quiet. He’s so fucking alone. He needs to do something, before he (runs to the bridge two blocks away so fucking close, how _convenient,_ then he can throw himself off of it and finally die)… does something he’ll regret.  
  
_I’ve fucked up._ He’s fucked up a lot, tonight. What does the Squip do when he fucks up? He tears his eyes away from the constellation wallpaper.  
  
“Okay,” Jeremy repeats. “Okay.”  
  
He walks into the bathroom. That’s where people usually do this kind of thing, right? The lights blaze too white, too bright against his aching eyes. He doesn’t know how to disassemble his razor. _Incompetent as usual,_ he thinks wearily. Where else would have what he needs?  
  
The kitchen, then. God, it’s so far. It’s such a long walk. _Is it even worth it?_ He’s so fucking tired.  
  
He’s on his way to the kitchen when, by divine revelation, he receives a vision. A smooth black handle, gleaming blade that will tuck away neatly into his back pocket when he needs it next (because he knows he’ll need it, if he’s going to do this on his own). His dad’s pocket knife, from days of Boy Scouts and regular weekly activities, from before mom decided Dad and Jeremy were spending too much time outside and not enough time working on Jeremy’s grades or the cleaning or Dad’s job (or whatever shitty excuse she’d used to make them feel guilty for not pulling their weight in the household).  
  
One short, short trip to the garage later (fuck he needs more time he’s so scared how does he do this will he ever come back from this?), Jeremy sits on his closed toilet. His butt is freezing. It’s so fucking cold in here. When did it get so cold?  
  
“Stop stalling,” he tells himself, shivering.  
  
_Where do I do it?_ He already knows. He already knows where Squip would make him do it. Wherever it hurts most. The Squip is all about working on weakness.  
  
He rolls his pants down, takes a minute to examine his unattractive thighs. Good thing Chloe hadn’t made it this far in undressing him. It wouldn’t have taken much to send her running. He’s so fucking ugly. At least cutting here won’t make much of a difference, appearance-wise.  
  
He lifts the blade, and goes to  
  
he goes to  
  
He puts it back down.  
  
“You fucking coward,” Jeremy whispers into his hands. “You fucking _coward._ ”  
  
Something kind of like hot oil rises in his chest, thick and black and burning, and he picks up the knife again and slices down. He makes some sort of noise, he’s not really sure what’s going on but it hurts (the blood runs down his thigh, so dark and he’s so fucking pale his thighs are so ugly he’s so ugly), but he remembers the Squip and the shocking and knows it isn’t enough.  
  
_I don’t want to do this,_ he thinks.  
  
“Coward,” he hisses.  
  
So he slides the knife down again, and it stings, and he grits his teeth and adds another line, and another. The cuts are pretty straight, but the blood runs in gross streaks down his legs and onto the tile (there’s too much white, too much light, too easy to see all the red he’s dripping and too easy to add more).  
  
_I’m never coming back from this,_ he thinks.  
  
“Do you even deserve to?” he asks himself.  
  
He slashes down a little harder and oh, that’s a lot of blood. _Is it enough? Am I done?_ But because he thinks it, he has to add another, he reasons.  
  
He cuts and he cuts and he cuts and he cuts until finally, he stops wanting to be done. By the time he’s done, there’s nothing left to fuel him, no more boiling black sludge in his heart, and he’s back to shivering. It’s really fucking cold.  
  
And he’s still alone.  
  
Jeremy cleans himself up ( _how do bandages even work,_ he googles, after the fifth time trying and failing to bandage his thighs because his fingers can’t pull it together and he feels like he’s fading at every moment).  
  
Jeremy is still alone, but he can do this. He can fix this. He can be his own Squip for as long as it takes.  
  
And if he can’t?  
  
Well, there’s always the bridge two blocks away.


	2. twenty seven reasons why

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By the end of the day, Jeremy has a list of twenty seven crimes.

When Jeremy walks back into school, he can’t breathe. It’s happening more and more. He can’t lift his gaze from his converse, but he can feel everyone staring at him. He hopes it’s not his clothes, he tried so fucking hard to pick something Squip-approved. He chose the least comfortable pants out of the whole wardrobe Squip had made him buy, and the shirt that Squip had said would make him look less scrawny, he doesn’t know what else they want from him. But he just doesn’t know why they’re staring at him and he doesn’t know how to fix it, whatever he’s done, so he keeps his eyes on his clean white laces (though Squip-approved, his old blue converse had been replaced with these bright red ones, because he’s a new Jeremy and New Jeremy needs to deliver a bold new impression so he doesn’t slide straight back into the _awful loser sludge he’d always been)_.  
  
He walks in to his locker and _oh._  
  
Chloe Valentine is waiting, examining her nails while Jenna poses with her camera ready. Jeremy’s locker is dented. Really, badly dented. His stomach churns (is that what they think of him? do they want to dent him too? will they hurt him? is he being punished for his fucking crimes?).  
  
He starts sliding backward, about to turn and make his escape when a hand claps down on his shoulder.  
  
“Jeremy!” Every head in the hall turns toward him. Jake Dillinger shuffles awkwardly on his crutches, dragging him away from where Chloe and Jenna stand waiting for him.  
  
“Listen, man, I just wanted to say, I’m sorry about what happened at the party. No hard feelings, right?”  
  
“Y-yeah. Sorry. No hard feelings,” Jeremy says. God, he’s got casts up to his knees. Jeremy’s so fucking selfish, what happened to Jake? What’s going on? “Jake… Your- your legs-?” _Shit, is it rude to bring that up? Fuck, I’m stuttering. Fuck, fuck, fuck._  
  
Jake tilts his head, confused, but answers slowly, “Yeah, my legs are going to be okay, they think. Doctor’s say I should be able to walk again eventually. It’s the best I can ask for, after jumping out of a window during the fire.”  
  
Every single muscle in Jeremy’s body locks up. Fire? There’d been a fire. At the party. He can’t move.  
  
Jake looks at him strangely, but then the warning bell rings, and he mutters something about how he has to go. Jeremy should help him, should walk him to class or something, but instead he’s stuck here like a fucking selfish moron, because there’d been a fire at the party and Jake had jumped out the window, and the Squip had decided it couldn’t fix Jeremy and left him to fend for himself but Jeremy doesn’t think he can do it anymore because Jake’s hobbling away and it’s only been ten minutes since he’s walked into school and he hasn’t breathed for nine of them.  
  
He’s still frozen when the bell signaling the start of period one rings. He honestly can’t tell if he’s breathing or not, can’t feel anything other than the squeezing of his chest that he _knows_ isn’t real (just another trick, his body betraying him again, won’t respond the way he wants it to he needs to _I have to go I can’t stand up_ ).  
  
The hall is silent, empty. His eyes are stuck on a poster at the end of the hall. Don’t do drugs! _Too fucking late._  
  
He’d fucked up with Jake. He deserves to die. He’s a selfish asshole. But he needs to get through this, needs to figure out something now, before everything is fucked up irreparably.  
  
Jeremy stands frozen for another two minutes when at last a solution comes, and he falls free again. It’s so simple!  
  
He just needs to keep track of his fuckups, then he can punish himself for them later. It’s perfect! Brilliant! Genius! Most importantly, he can breathe without wanting to die!  
  
Armed with the knowledge that every fuckup means another slice on his thighs, Jeremy steps forward into the day. He can do this. He can train himself to be good. _It’ll be okay._  
  


* * *

  
 _It’s not okay._ He accidentally makes eye contact with Brooke in the hall, and she runs off, starting to cry. He doesn’t know what to say, and ends up freezing up again, so some of Brooke’s friends shove him into the wall and kick him in the shins. He takes note on his phone. Jeremy thinks that’s probably worth two.  
  
 _That’s what you get for being a piece of shit who cheats on his girlfriend,_ he thinks. Then Chloe rounds the corner, and the goons assaulting him stop––but they’re still glaring with murder in their souls.  
  
It turns out Chloe wants to let him know it was a one time thing and she’s not really into him, and he stutters and avoids eye contact and catches himself slouching twice, so he adds seven more notes on his phone.  
  
Lunch takes an eternity to arrive, but finally it’s time for him to go sit with the popular group, as usual. Then, he remembers _Michael._  
  
For a solid half-second, the cold pit in Jeremy’s chest goes warm and rises ( _I can sit with Michael, we can talk about video games, I can-_ ). Then he remembers he’s a piece of shit, Michael isn’t his friend anymore, and he deserves to die. The cold comes back. _Alright, that’s worth three._ One for wanting to sit with Michael, another for forgetting how shitty he was to Michael, and one last one because he deserves to die. (He’s very quickly racking up numbers. This is very bad. Very very bad.)  
  
 _Besides, it’s not like you could just tell him the Squip went away._ Yeah, no. Michael wouldn’t believe him and would be even more mad, or worse, he would, and he’d finally be forced to realize how terrible Jeremy’s always been. Michael had this habit of just brushing off Jeremy’s flaws, but this goes a little further than that. When a supercomputer whose only job is to make you a worthwhile human being decides it’s impossible, you know you are an utterly worthless piece of human filth. (But hey! Jeremy’s a selfish piece of human filth, so he’s trying to maybe hold on a little longer. Sue him.)  
  
By the end of the day, Jeremy has a list of twenty seven crimes.  
  
-bringing up Jake’s legs  
-stuttering  
-being selfish about the fire  
-freezing in the morning  
-not solving problem faster  
-being shitty enough to need a chill pill  
-making brooke cry  
-cheating on brooke  
-stuttering  
-slouching  
-talking to chloe  
-stuttering  
-avoiding eye contact  
-stuttering  
-slouching  
-reverting back to ‘present’ during attendance  
-slouching  
-stuttering  
-forgetting lunch money  
-forgetting michael  
-wanting to sit with michael  
-existing  
-letting jenna take a pictures  
-stuttering  
-not finding out about rich  
-not checking on rich  
-talking to chloe in front of brooke  
-stuttering  
  
He’s terrified, and he’s tired, and the Squip _still isn’t here._ The pain, the fear, they’re ice shards in his stomach.  But Jeremy knows it’s important to form habits and follow through, so when he gets home he takes of his pants and adds twenty seven more slices.  
  
He adds three more, ( _for existing_ ) to round it out to thirty.


	3. the tide is high (i'm not holding on)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> jeremy takes a trip.
> 
> TW: suicidal thoughts, self harm

It’s been eight days. It’s been eight days since the Squip left, and Jeremy can’t take it anymore. It would be too easy to just… walk out and never come back. To just walk, and walk, and walk, and never see anything again. All day it cycles through his head, every little thing reminds him about it (and he knows, he fucking knows that he’s ridiculous, that he’s pathetic and weak, but he’s wanted to quit since his first unsquipped breath and he’s made it far enough and things haven’t gotten better and they’re not going to and he’s taking up time and space and fuck he just really wants to die).  
  
He trips on his shoelaces on the way to second period, and he wants to die.  
  
He gets another notification––Chloe, _everyone donate to rich’s flower bouquet to show your support!_ Jeremy has not heard from Rich since two hours before the party, and he wants to die.  
  
The teacher explains a lab in biology, and he wants to die.  
  
He drops his pencil on his foot, and he wants to die.  
  
Someone picks up his pencil and he stutters when they give it back, and he wants to die.  
  
He looks up and sees it’s _Christine_ giving his pencil back, smiling a little sadly, and he wants to die.  
  
Michael bumps into him on their way out of Biology. He’d forgotten michael was in his class, and he wants to die.  
  
he accidentally steps in the puddle by the water fountain and _he wants to die._  
  
this wave of _hurt hurt die die now now now_ just comes back, over and over again. it retreats for a millisecond, while he attempts to start the lab procedure, and rushes right back in when he drops something, screwing their data up. it’s like being trapped in the tide, getting pounded into the ground by waves that don’t relent, just continue to sweep him up and smash him down hard. the chorus in his head wants so desperately for him to die, and who is he to deny it? he’s too tired, too worthless, too alone.  
  
he stands up, very calmly, during his biology class, and walks out. the teacher sputters behind him, but jeremy is done (the list isn’t enough anymore. it’s too long, and still not enough. he needs to end this, now.)  
  
jeremy leaves his backpack in the classroom. it’s not like he needs it, to do what he’s going to do next. he walks home alone and silent, slipping past unnoticed by everyone he sees. (he hasn’t been noticed by any of the people who are supposed to be his friends. except for maybe christine. but she doesn’t really care about him, not in the way he wants her to. besides, he’s a disgusting piece of human filth, and he’s not going to be around for much longer.)  
  
jeremy walks home. it’s a little before three. school would have gotten out soon anyway (not that it matters. grades don’t matter if you’re not alive long enough for college). his father is at work, for the first time this week. for a second jeremy feels vaguely guilty about this, knowing his dad will end up having to deal with this aftermath, but it’s probably better than having to pay for a son who doesn’t do anything but sit alone at home, who is only coarse and rude and who drove his wife away. jeremy’s doing the right thing.  
  
he stands outside the house. there’s no reason to go in. he has nothing inside that he needs for this, nothing he can take with him.  
  
he goes in anyway.  
  
the house is silent. he doesn’t know what he was expecting. of course it is, it’s empty. the house is warm, too, but jeremy didn’t come in here for warmth. he walks up the stairs, because he can, and lets his jacket fall to the floor in his room. he takes a slow second to look around. the place is bare, almost unrecognizable from six months ago, when the walls had been plastered with tacky posters, shelves full of action figures and games. now all that’s left are the essentials.  
  
some clothes. a football. the most popular gaming console.  
  
(he wonders what his dad will do with them, how much they’ll sell for.)  
  
jeremy walks back downstairs. the house is warm and soft and vaguely dull. he won’t ever be coming back.  
  
(he wonders if the Squip would let him go through with this, if it was still around. he has no idea anymore. for him, the Squip had always been about pain and punishment, because jeremy was such an irredeemable fuckup. and then it had left, because jeremy was just that bad. yes, the Squip would have approved, would probably have walked jeremy of the bridge himself if it hadn’t wanted to escape his dumb worthless ugly body so fast.)  
  
he opens the door, eases it shut, steps off the porch and into the street.  
  
and just like that, jeremy heere says goodbye to his house.  
  
it’s cold outside. jeremy’s always cold. he has been, for a while now. it won’t matter much soon. (it’s november now. the first snow happened yesterday, and everything is coated in white. it’s a thin layer, though. if he brushes the snow aside he can still see the crack in the pavement. the snow doesn’t really cover much of anything.)  
  
he walks to the bridge.


	4. a view from desperation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there's a leap of faith, somewhere in there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> major TW for attempted suicide
> 
>  
> 
> this week sucks but I didn't do anything bad so at least there's that.

the bridge is two blocks away. he’s been so distinctly aware of it of the past week. the bridge. the bridge! jeremy’s great and terrible backup plan.  
  
the bridge is part of a park, actually. a park, where there are lots of trees, bushes, hills. the bridge is over a river. if the fall doesn’t kill him, the river will. (sometimes there are dogs at this park, but today is cold, and it’s the wrong time of day. that’s okay. dogs shouldn’t have to see this.)  
  
the ground is icy. he carefully picks his way across the park until he’s standing at the bridge, and finally breathes some relief.  
  
there it is. his one way ticket. twenty feet into cold, dark water. he stares at the metal rails of this great freedom express. he steps forward.  
  
for the first time since he’s decided he’s going to do this, he hesitates before he touches the rail.  
  
fuck. he hisses, taking his hand back. it’s freezing. bitingly cold.  
  
 _come on, you coward._ he grasps it firmly, hoisting himself up and onto the ledge. he lifts his foot and he  
  
he  
  
he teeters. He teeters for a second, suddenly wide awake from the cold stabbing through his hands, awake from the shriek of wind that bursts past his ear in the instant he stands up, awake from the sight of the river gushing below him like some deadly black snake amidst the powdery white.  
  
Jeremy teeters, and falls backward instead of forward, and does not die.  
  
His eyes are wide open, gasping in air like he’d just run a marathon and not like he’d just tried to throw himself off a bridge like some kind of _moron._  
  
Fuck, that really hurts. His ankle throbs. But he’s alive, and he stares up at the grey, cloudy sky, and then at the snow-silvered trees and absolutely loathes himself for enjoying the view. Then his whole body is racked with a violent shudder, and Jeremy realizes that if he wants to stay alive, he needs to do something about the cold, because he’s been in it for about an hour and a half, counting the walk from school.  
  
 _do i still want to stay alive?_  
  
he doesn’t know. he’s getting colder by the second, and where the temperature had initially dulled everything, now it’s all too sharp and he needs more time to make this decision. jeremy fumbles for the phone he had selfishly brought along, fumbles, hits speed dial and  
  
oh fuck his speed dial is still michael.  
  
Michael. Who Jeremy has been ignoring for months, who Jeremy just last week rejected for the last time, _Michael,_ who wouldn’t even come to Jeremy’s funeral, let alone  
  
Michael picks up.  
  
“Hello? Who is this?”  
  
Michael… who no longer has his number saved.  
  
 _that’s fair,_ Jeremy tells himself, shivering.  
  
Apparently he speaks out loud, because Michael recognizes him. “Jeremy? What the fuck? Why are you calling me? Here to tell me about whatever rave you’re skipping class for?”  
  
“N-n-n-n-“ He’s shivering too badly to even talk, his teeth are chattering.  
  
“No? Then what, dude?” Fuck, Michael sounds pissed. (It’s probably not even worth it.)  
  
Well. If there’s anyone worthy of making this judgement call in Jeremy’s life, it’s Michael.  
  
“C-c-c-“ Fuck. Try harder. “C-can you pick me up?” A long pause. A really long pause. “I need help.”  
  
A pause. Jeremy waits. Then, judge and jury sighs. “Where are you.”  
  
“Park. Bridge,” Jeremy manages. Michael grumbles his ETA and hangs up.  
  
Haltingly, he makes his way over to the side of the park Michael will pick him up from, slipping and falling a minimum of two times. His jeans rip on the second fall, and he gets scraped up a little, but it’s better than being dead. It does make him more of a burden on whosever stuff he uses to fix himself, so he adds that to his mental list of faults, but keeps walking.  
  
When he gets there, the ugly gold PT Cruiser is waiting, and Michael looks angry. Still, he gets out of the car to meet Jeremy and even catches him when he fucking trips for the third time.  
  
“Dude, what the fuck have you been doing?” His ex-bestfriend mutters, grabbing him by both elbows while he slumps halfway forward.  
  
It’s been twenty minutes, and Jeremy suddenly realizes he’s been walking the wrong direction toward Michael’s car.  
  
“Cold,” he slurs, and Michael sighs again, angrier.  
  
The drive home is not silent, at all, because Michael keeps snapping at Jeremy to keep his eyes open. Jeremy is confused, but complies.  
  
He continues to comply when they arrive at the Mell household and one of Michael’s moms remarks that she’s surprised to see Jeremy here. He almost wants to make a joke about his name, but this is Michael’s mom so she’s probably heard it already. Instead he tells her he actually wasn’t planning on being anywhere at all for the rest of time, and her face twists up weirdly while Michael’s grows shutters.  
  
For some reason, they ask Jeremy to take his clothes off? He sits there, confusedly, until Michael sighs and comes forward to try it and then somehow Jeremy ends up on the floor, scrambling away from Chloe and then he looks up and it’s actually Michael and he snaps back into reality again. (he stops crying and feels scared, as though he’s given away something he didn’t want michael to know, but he wipes his eyes and listens.)  
  
He complies again, takes off his clothes and changes into Michael’s dry ones and is herded toward a heater and wrapped in blankets.   
  
“I think I’m going to die of hypothermia,” he mumbles, and Michael’s face twitches, he almost smiles. Oh. Maybe not?  
  
“You’re not going to die of hypothermia,” Michael tells him, adding “anymore” at the end because Jeremy’s stupid.  
  
Mrs. Mell passes Michael a mug of hot chocolate and gives him a look Jeremy doesn’t quite understand. But Michael shrugs off his questions and helps him hold his hot chocolate until he’s back. They sit in quiet for a really long time and Jeremy counts the spots on Michael’s nose and wonders why he ever chose to stop looking at this.


	5. are you there, god?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jeremy's trial is not over yet. After all, the judge can't make a call without all the evidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for some seriously negative self talk, eating disorder-esque content, imagined gore
> 
> sorry. life is a fucking nightmare.

When Jeremy’s brain finally starts operating normally, he realizes that Michael, too, has been watching him, and from Michael’s narrowed eyes, he doesn’t like what he’s seeing.  
  
“Jeremy, does the Squip not let you eat? I swear that old t-shirt used to fit you better.”  
  
Cringing, Jeremy tries to respond. “Can we, uh, not talk about it right now?”  
  
His best friend sits back, glaring at the ground. “Well, what else should we talk about, then, _best friend?”_  
  
Ouch. _But fair,_ thinks Jeremy.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. Michael looks up, pretending he hasn’t heard.  
  
“Is it? Starving you?”  
  
Agitated, Jeremy looks down. “No, Michael. It’s not. Can we please drop it?” He picks up his hot chocolate and the other boy catches his wrist.  
  
“I didn’t used to be able to do that,” murmurs Michael. His finger and his thumb connect around the limb.  
  
Jeremy squeezes his eyes shut. He’s not starving himself, the squip isn’t starving him, he’s just… “Michael, please, I don’t want to talk about it.“  
  
“Okay, then,” and Michael’s voice is scarily even. “How about this? Why weren’t you wearing a coat? Why were you at the park today?”  
  
“I…” Jeremy doesn’t know what to say. “I don’t know.”  
  
“You have to. You just called me half dead from hypothermia! Just tell me what’s going on, dude!”  
  
He shakes his head frantically. _No, no._ He can’t tell Michael.  
  
“Jeremy, why call me at all if you won’t let me help? What’s going on?”  
  
His head might fly off if he shakes it any harder. This is _bad._  
  
“Why can’t you tell me? Is it the Squip?” No. It’s not. He’s so fucking terrible. “What’s it doing to you?” Nothing, anymore, because Jeremy is irredeemable human filth. “I can make it stop, just tell me what’s going on!” No, please no. “Jeremy? Jeremy! What’s going on?” It’s too much.  
  
His eyes fly open. “No! It’s me!”  
  
His best friend quiets. He’s a fucking terrible person. Irredeemable human filth. Worthless garbage, a waste of space.  
  
“It’s me,” whispers Jeremy. “It’s me. I’m doing this to myself. The Squip left after Halloween.”  
  
Michael is both confused and angry. It results in a vicious cocktail of venom and hurt in his voice when he argues, “That’s not possible.”  
  
Why doesn’t he understand? Jeremy would rather die than spell it out for him. But Michael deserves to know the whole story. He’d called his best friend to see if he was still worth saving, but hadn’t given him the full facts. Jeremy needs a final verdict.  
  
“The Squip left, because I fucked up too bad. He couldn’t help me anymore, I’m too… awful. He left.”  
  
“That’s not how that works, dude,” says Michael. His face is tight with something unnamed. Jeremy searches his eyes for judgement and finds only pain.  
  
“But that’s what happened! I… I couldn’t see you at first, when he was here, and now I can. Have been since Halloween.”  
  
“So you’ve been without it, and avoiding me anyway.”  
  
This is exactly what Jeremy didn’t want, probably because he knew Michael would hate him if he knew. But this is a fair trial. Michael deserves the evidence. He drops his gaze again.  
  
“Yes,” Jeremy whispers.  
  
The silence is awful. The gap between them is physically painful. Jeremy just wishes Michael would do something. For that long, awful moment, Jeremy imagines vividly what it would be like to let Michael stab him. Cathartic, probably. For them both. Let the blade slide through his ribs, gushing red, letting out all the evil inside of Jeremy. And Michael would have a solid weight to push against, get his aggression out while defeating his demons. And Jeremy would die, and finally pay for everything he’s done so irredeemably.  
  
He’s a terrible person. So terrible, that a supercomputer literally designed to make people better gave up on him. He’s a burden on his dad, a terrible best friend, and he deserves to die. Michael won’t make the call, because Jeremy’s hurt Michael too badly.  
  
“Jeremy Heere, you are all kinds of fucked up,” Michael says.  
  
_Not wrong,_ thinks Jeremy, while his brain chants _die, die, die._  
  
“But, I have something to show you.”  
  
Huh?  
  
“Your Squip can’t just go away on its own,” explains his friend as he traipses downstairs. Jeremy can spare a few more moments for the one person who matters most, so he follows Michael instead of leaving to go off himself again. “You need Mountain Dew Red to deactivate it. It’s still there. It didn’t leave. I don’t know why it pretended to leave, but it’s still there.”  
  
“That’s not-“  
  
and there it is, a dark web page on Squips. And there it is, in broken English, Japanese, Chinese, and Russian. And there it is. Deactivate with only Peak Dew Red.  
  
Green Mountain Dew activates it. Red shuts it off.  
  
Jeremy can’t breathe.  
  
“Your Squip is still inside you, turdblossom. Drink this and let’s talk,” says Michael, brandishing the bottle. Jeremy looks at it. And there it is, Mountain Dew Red.  
  
He still can’t breathe, of course, so he doesn’t even try reaching for the bottle. Instead, he reaches out to the space in his head that the Squip had seemed to occupy before it figured out he was a fuckup beyond help.  
  
_Are you there?_  
  
Lightning arcs across his brain, pain shooting through his fingertips and into where Michael has grabbed his hand to steady him. His friend cries out. Jeremy is so sorry, so fucking sorry.  
  
_“Yes, Jeremy. I am here. Are you ready to cooperate?”_  
  
Michael stares at him, comprehension dawning, and reaches out to uncap the soda. He’s saying something, but Jeremy can’t hear over the deafening static in his brain.  
  
It’s too much. Michael reaches forward, shocks wrack his entire body again, and in one swift motion, Jeremy Heere turns and runs.  
  
He bolts up the stairs and past Michael’s mom, through the door and out into the street. A car nearly runs him over, but he keeps running, back through the park. The Squip shouts the whole way, and once he gets to the bridge the Squip snorts.  
  
_“Again? Haven’t we already established your cowardice? By all means, continue with your dramatics, but we both know you won’t jump.”_  
  
A sob tears out of his throat, raw and bitter. It’s right. He starts running again, ignoring the ache in his chest and the cramps in his foot, runs, and runs, and runs. The Squip quiets.  
  
He needs to leave New Jersey. He runs and runs until he finds a bus stop.  
  
_Will this take me out of the city?_  
  
_“Yes.”_ The Squip seems to be done resisting, resigned to its fate in this fucking terrible host body.  
  
Jeremy sneaks onto the bus and rides away, watching New Jersey’s suburbs blur by as he leaves behind… everything.  
  
By morning, he’s arrived at Mount Ebott City. By morning, he sneaks off the bus, and finds a bridge to hide under. The perfect place for a stupid, ugly troll to hide. (The Squip shocks him for that thought. It’s okay, he’s stupid and ugly and awful. It’s what he deserves.)  
  
Tucked away into a dilapidated concrete arch, shivering from the frosting wind, Jeremy Heere falls asleep.


End file.
